


Peaked

by Merit



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Tathiel left Belisaere and she only looked back once.





	Peaked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shopfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/gifts).



She left on a crystal clear night. The stars and the moon shone down on her with nary a cloud dancing across them. Inwardly she cursed the night; without any cloud cover she’d be even easier for her grandfather’s guards to spot. But she’d been preparing for this for weeks now. She knew the guard routines, she knew which ones walked slower, knew which ones liked to pause for chat around the old refectory. She pressed herself against an old wall, the stone jutting into her spine, as ol’ Tim and Batho walked past, talking about how sad it was that the king had lost his -

Tathiel had turned away, squeezing her eyes shut, covering her ears with her hands. Her heartbeat was fierce in her chest, she bit her lip, the pain starting her. She lowered her hands, staring down at her fingers, nails bitten to the quick. It was all Belisaere could talk about, how there would be a _young_ queen, and how _jolly_ that would be.

But it wasn't going to be her. A Clayr had told her. And when was a Clayr ever wrong?

When ol' Tim and Batho had passed, it was easy enough to slip through one of the side gates. She’d been oiling it for the past few weeks, smiling cheerfully at any passing guards and servants. When she pushed it, it swung smoothly and silently into the night. She slipped through the gate, pausing momentarily to stare back at the towers of her home for the past sixteen years. A nervous feeling rose in her stomach, but Tathiel squashed it down. She’d gone this far. She couldn’t have second thoughts _now_. Not when someone was waiting for _her_.

At this time of night the streets of Belisaere were free of the carts and mad rush of people cluttering the cobblestones. It was still too early for the farmers to make their slow journey to the market squares scattered around Belisaere. A few scattered men and women, drunk and laughing, sitting on old hearthstones and leaning out of ancient taverns. No paid any attention to the youth walking quickly through the streets, cloak wrapped around her despite the warm evening, the hood dipping over her eyes.

She left through a crack in the walls she had discovered as a child. She had always meant to tell someone about the winding route under the walls, cold water trickling down her neck. But every time she had opened her mouth, her lips went numb and over time she had almost forgotten the path.

Until she met Clirelle.

 

Clirelle was waiting on the hill. She was tending to one of the horses, soothing nonsense words. The moonstones in her ears, gifts from Tathiel, glowed under the bright stars.

For a moment Tathiel watched her. Under the moonlight, Clirelle was more beautiful than when Tathiel had first met her, when she had taken her breath away, leaving her breathless. Then she smiled and stepped forward.

“I made it,” Tathiel said, bold and bright. Clirelle started, mouth wide in an oh, the horses shying away from her. Then Clirelle laughed, clear and sharp as a bell, head tipped back in a free and careless gesture. It made Tathiel’s heart ache.

She walked quickly over to Tathiel, opening her arms, and Tathiel stepped readily into the embrace, pressing kisses along Clirelle’s neck. The moon lit up Clirelle’s hair, her eyes dark shadows, freckles starburst across dark skin.

“Enough of that,” Clirelle said reluctantly, pulling back. “We want to be leagues away from Belisaere by the time the sun is up.”

Tathiel nodded. Behind her, Belisaere was beginning to rise, the horizon a deep purple. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, her stomach uneasy. With a shrug of her shoulders, Tathiel threw away the feeling. She didn’t have _time_ for second thoughts.

She walked over to one of the horses, holding out her hand. The horse, a mare, a star between its eyes, breathed warm air over her fingers. Running a gentle hand through her mane, Tathiel swiftly jumped onto the horse’s back. Clirelle mounted her horse much less dramatically, her form stiffer.

“It will take a few days to reach Clayr’s Glacier,” Clirelle said, urging her horse to a canter. “Maybe more if we have to be careful, if we’re travelling by night.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Tathiel said, just loud enough to be heard over the horses.

She didn’t look back at Belisaere.

 

The Clary’s Library was unlike the Royal Library in Belisaere. The Royal Library had been neglected for generations. Her grandfather had little interest and the few remaining librarians were tottering, mildering old men and women, always startled to see a youth gadding about the shelves. The Court had used the Library more for romantic escapades than the books within. Tathiel had even brought Clirelle there on occasion, before Clirelle had been recalled to the Glacier.

The Clayr’s Library during the day was full of the Clayr and even the occasional visitor from the outside. Crimson clad Charter mages, sparrow brown merchants with a stack of ancient tomes. At night, the shelves were quiet but the whole Library resonated with a great power. It left the back of Tathiel’s mouth dry, her eyes tearing up as in the presence of a Great Charter Stone. Her bones ached, too, as they always did when Free Magic was close by.

She lingered against a shelf, her eyes scanning the books - the _Arte of Magicking the Charter, Animals Beyond the Great Forest, the Last of the Wallmakers_ \- til Clirelle sighed heavily and tugged at her wrist.

“You can read those any time,” Clirelle hissed, looking over her shoulder, eyes saucer wide. “We’ll get caught if you keep on gawking,” she whispered, stage loud, and unaware of how far her voice travelled. Tathiel smiled, shaking her wrist free and then threading her finger through Clirelle’s.

“Then let’s go,” she said, striding confidently past the shelving station, the books towering imperiously above her head, Clirelle’s fingers warm in her grasp.

She’d heard rumours, of course, and heard even more about how much of it was forbidden. Tathiel had wrinkled her nose at that; she’d never been very good at letting other people tell her what she should do. And she was sure the Clayr meant well. They were very good at telling her how much they meant well.

And then it had taken her longer than she thought it would to bespell an old Librarians bracelet. Clirelle had been no help, always patrolling the Glacier or ensconced with the Clayr in one of their Watches. Tathiel had asked, surely she could know something, she was of Royal blood but Clirelle had smiled sadly, lips firmly closed.

But Tathiel wasn’t allowed on patrols, yet. Her blood was restless under her skin, she had to do something. Even if it was breaking into a Library to see what was truly hidden beyond closed doors and strong spells.

How bad could it be? She had Clirelle at her side and Tathiel felt invincible.

And it felt good to have a sword at her side again.

Under the Library, the halls twisted and narrowed, the doors thick with Charter marks that seemed impossibly ancient. Tathiel leaned closer to a door, the acidic taste of Free Magic rising at the back of her throat. Her fingers twitched, her hand on her sword, Charter marks warm against her fingers. She smiled wildly at Clirelle and placed her hand on the door's handle.

"Let's try this one," she said.

 

Her blood itched this far north.

Her skin restless under the heavy furs.

It had been a lark, an idle suggestion during a long and bitter winter. Snow lashing the mountains, all Clayr confined to the Glacier. They hadn't had any visitors for months. Not that Tathiel dared visit the Refectory after almost being seen by one of her grandfather's old diplomats. 

Tathiel had paced their quarters, the Glacier's passageways, peered into half of the books of the Library with nary a word staying in her mind. Clirelle had been given her irritated stares for half the week. They'd both been peevish and Tathiel had needed to do something.

Kissing Clirelle, pressing her up against ancient hewn stone, dragging her teeth done her brown neck. That had helped release some of the tension in Tathiel.

And so she'd thrown it out there.

"This summer," she said, breathing in deeply, Clirelle's had tied her tunic lopsided and was giving it a bemused frown.

"Oh?" Clirelle said, only half paying attention.

"Let's go North."

 

But up North, the air felt wrong, stale and lifeless.

Tathiel longed for the south. For the Old Kingdom, for her kingdom.

They avoided the people, most stinking of some sort of Free Magic. During the night, sometimes she heard screams and wicked laughter, great bodies moving the night sky.

The hair at the back of her neck was almost constantly upright.

"We should go home," Tathiel said, whispering to Clirelle one night, the whites of her eyes flashing in the night like a nervous horse.

"To the Glacier?" Clirelle asked.

Tathiel paused. She took in a deep, considering breath. Clirelle had her eyes closed.

"Yes," and it wasn't exactly a lie.

 

They left before sunrise, the pre-dawn light of orange and pink streaking across the snow. Caves and snow piles were illuminated in slow shifts, shadows stretching long as the sun started to edge over the horizon. Behind them, the Clayr’s Glacier and the twin mountains loomed.

The snow was blindingly bright when the winter sun hit it. Tathiel narrowed her eyes, looking away, ignoring the stabbing pains. Next to her, Clirelle laughed, soft and gentle. Tathiel bristled, giving Clirelle a sour look.

“Did you forget your goggles again?” Clirelle said.

“I might have,” Tathiel murmured, tears starting at the corners of her eyes.

“Good thing I brought a spare pair,” Clirelle murmured, leaning close, their coats brushing. She handed over a pair of goggles, glass eye pieces tinted blue. Tathiel strapped them to her head.

“The Watch said there would be visitors?”

“Yes,” Clirelle said simply. Her eyes were red, but she brushed away Tathiel's questions with a mysterious smile that reminded Tathiel of the thousand cousins behind the ice and stone of the twin mountains. 

Tathiel’s lips thinned. The Clayr could be infuriating close-mouthed at times, knowing faces with their moonstone crowns. She had lived with the Clayr for almost a decade and it still felt, at times, that she was a stranger in their halls. The children, blonde and brown skinned, bright blue or green eyes, still stared at her as she walked through the halls.

“They should have flown here in a paperwing,” Tathiel said, walking faster, the snow rising above her ankles, her calves burning gently. She squinted into the sky, the vast snow ridge ahead of them, hiding any of these mysterious visitors from her sight.

“There might be too many,” Clirelle said, tantalisingly.

“Hmm,” Tathiel hummed. There was a nervous energy in the air, almost electric and Clirelle hadn’t wanted to meet her gaze all morning.

When they ascended the ridge, Tathiel’s breath fell away from her. Behind her Clirelle was silent. Banners snapped in the air and an eagle circled above, shadows flickering across the snow.

When the crowd saw her, they cheered.

Tathiel stepped back, sinking into the snow in her haste. She looked over her shoulder. Clirelle was standing there solemnly. Beyond them, the Clayr were forming, the weak light glinting off armour. More Clayr than Tathiel had ever seen outside of the Glacier.

“This was Seen by the Nine-Day Watch,” Clirelle murmured, moonstones flashing in her ears. “An army at your back as you retake Belisaere.”

“Retake Belisaere?” Tathiel exclaimed. “What about my - ” and the words curled up on themselves, ash on her tongue.

“You will be queen,” Clirelle said solemnly, her words having a finality that only a Clayr could impose.

"You Saw another," Tathiel said. "You didn't See me queen." The hurt bit at her heart. Tears welled in Clirelle's eyes.

"We See many futures and - I was young," Clirelle said. "I had fallen so desperately in love with you. I had been Seen in Belisaere with you but. Then they Saw me coming home again." The tears were streaming down her face. "The Glacier could never be your home."

It stung. Tathiel leaned back, reeling away from Clirelle. The words settled uncomfortably over Tathiel.

“You will join me,” Tathiel said, trying for authority, but she knew she sounded like she was begging.

Clirelle smiled sadly. “Not yet. I have been in Seen in the Glacier over the coming weeks. And you have been Seen entering Belisaere - without me.”

Tathiel hissed between her teeth. The Clayr were closer, she was starting to identify faces, women she had known for a decade. How long had they _known_. Her mind whirled at the betrayal.

“Our lives are not our own,” Clirelle said, shifting, her face in half profile. “Not with our bloodlines.”

 

The throne room seemed smaller than she remembered it. She had ordered her guards, her advisors, the aged courtiers of her grandfather, clad in moth eaten court attire, to leave her. They did so reluctantly, as if they feared she would leave again, like she had left before. Outside they loomed, chains tying her to Belisaere and the throne she had ran away from ten years ago.

The scent of blood still lingered in the air, worn into the stone. There was also the stench of Free Magic, of that half-Royal, half-Abhorsen cousin of hers. Tathiel’s lip curled at the memory of Clariel’s escape. She had been fed lies, by Mistress Ader and her party, the new Abhorsen’s guilty face more illuminating than any of her advisors.

She sank into the throne, though it hadn’t been made for comfort. Some long dead ancestors had insisted the throne be an actual and literal burden.

They wanted her to be queen.

She smiled, slowly.

She would be queen. But she would be her _own_ queen.

And she _would_ bring Clirelle to Belisaere again.


End file.
